


Bodywork

by battle_cat



Series: Together [39]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The garage is noisy with work and chatter, but she might as well be the only other person in the Wasteland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodywork

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this smutty art](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/148200625063/filthy-smut-warning-a-prompt-i-drew-for-a-smut) by YoukaiYume.

It’s a good day. They’ve both slept as peacefully as they ever do. Nothing is on fire (literally or otherwise) and the Citadel has just traded for a trailer-load of new salvage, filling the garage with work to busy themselves in.

Among the salvage is the skeleton of an old semi. The body is rusted through and useless, but there are plenty of parts worth pillaging for the Citadel’s own rig, which everyone calls the new rig, although without the capitalized reverence the War Rig had demanded.

They work in companionable silence for hours, speaking only to ask for a tool or an extra hand or discuss whether a part would be best put to use on this vehicle or another. Furiosa looks content, the line of her shoulders relaxed and easy. She is like him, happiest when she has a task to bury herself in, something that works muscles and demands focus outside of her own head. She is like him in so many ways, and his better in so many others.

It happens when they’re on a pair of crawlers together under the new rig. “Can you…?” she mutters, straining to loosen a bolt that’s gotten caked with desert grit.

He reaches over to put an extra hand on the wrench until he feels the nut start to move. He suddenly realizes he’s right on top of her, his nose an inch from hers.

It’s not like they’re unused to being in close quarters, but…there’s a sheen of sweat on her chest, and a smudge of grease on her cheekbone where she must’ve scratched an itch, and she looks so calm lying there on the crawler, her metal hand wrapped around the heavy drive shaft of the rig for leverage.

She catches him looking and meets his gaze, a tiny smile on her lips. It sends a frisson of energy through him. The garage is noisy with work and chatter, but she might as well be the only other person in the Wasteland.

“Thanks,” she says, nodding her head up at the undercarriage. “I’ve got it from here.”

He sees her bite her lip just a little as he retreats back onto his crawler.

The next time she reaches above her head, he leans over and strokes a finger feather-light down the inside of her arm. She freezes, her eyes flickering closed for a moment, the hint of a smile back. “You’re very distracting.”

She doesn’t look at him, but she very deliberately puts the heavy wrench she'd been holding on the ground between them, letting her flesh hand rest on her hip.

His fingers trail from the back of her palm to the cap of her shoulder, so light he leaves a shiver of gooseflesh behind. His hands are dirty, but the touch is not even enough pressure to wipe the grease off. He watches the flicker of her throat as she swallows.

He touches the hinge of her jaw, feeling her pulse thud. His thumb ghosts over the plane of her cheekbone, brushing just at the corner of her mouth before skating away. Her eyes have drifted closed again. There’s a thin gloss of sweat on the tendons in her neck, and it’s mesmerizing. Before he makes a conscious decision he’s touching her there, the tips of his fingers tracing the long line of her throat. She tips her head back just slightly, a tiny surrender that sends a rush of heat through him.

Her breathing has shifted, just from this; he can feel it as his hand skates over her chest, just the tips of his fingers running under her top to stroke where hard muscle gives way to the soft swell of her breasts.

“Fuck you,” she breathes out on a rough exhale.

“Mm. ‘S an option.”

She bites her bottom lip again, and, oh, he wants to be the one doing that.

“There’s an alcove behind Bay Five,” she says. “We wouldn’t be seen.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d fucked in the garage, but every other time was at night. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the garage is buzzing with activity.

“Lotta people around,” he murmurs. He slides his fingers a little deeper under her top, stroking a breast, feeling her breath hitch under his touch. “Have to be quiet.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re not quiet.”

Another little quirk of her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She turns to look at him, a flick of her gaze up and down his body, and that’s all it takes for his breathing to go raw like hers.

“Wash your hands first,” she says. “Bay Five.” She slides out from under the rig with a devilish smile.

 

The second he ducks into the shadowy alcove at the far end of the garage she pulls him against her, flesh and metal hands on his jacket pinning him back against the stone. Her mouth is rough and eager against his, tongue and teeth and panting breath, and his hands want to be everywhere at once, on her back and her waist and her ass, cupping the back of her head, holding her close against him. She bites at his bottom lip and he bites back, driving some kind of breathless whimper out of her.

“Quiet, remember?” he hums when he can snatch a breath. She retaliates with a sharp nip on his earlobe.

She’s sweaty and keyed up, crackling with energy, and she smells like metal and grease and salt and the hot desert wind that blows in through the open garage bay, the same scent that hit him in that first moment, when she was on top of him with a shotgun jammed under his chin, and— _fuck_ —he doesn’t know what to do with the way she overwhelms him sometimes. She is blazing heat and power, the desert sun at midday, a sandstorm contained in a person, and he can make her come apart in his hands with pleasure, and she has somehow chosen to let him. 

His only conscious thought is that there’s a trickle of sweat on her neck that needs his mouth on it, so that’s what he does, licking down her flushed skin to the hard ridge of her collarbone. She sighs.

She has this way of making him sync up with her, kicking him into the right gear, pushing him until he pushes back and they somehow end up exactly where she wanted to be all along. He doesn’t know how she does it but it works every goddamn time.

His teeth scrape at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and if she wants to tell him not to bite, not to leave so fresh a mark in so visible a place, her lips are right there beside his ear, but she gasps instead, and so he bites down steady and hard. She chokes back a moan.

“Fuck, Max,” she hisses, her hand curling tight into his hair. He’s already hard against the insistent grind of her hips. “Want you to fuck me here,” she breathes in his ear. “Make me come for you.”

He groans against her skin. There’s a rough lump of rock the right height to sit on near the end of the alcove wall, and she pushes him toward it, even though it leaves them closer to being exposed. She unbuckles her belt, tugs her pants down over her ass, and fuck, he can already smell her before he gets his hand between her legs and strokes through slick heat.

“Wet,” he growls.

“Look at what you do to me,” she whispers right back, and every breathless syllable goes through him like a lightning bolt. He rubs a rough thumb over her clit and she buries her whimper in the collar of his jacket.

He doesn’t have the willpower for any more teasing, helping her shove his pants down to his thighs. With her trousers still on she can’t quite spread her legs to straddle him, but she hooks one up against his hip and then she’s sliding down on top of him, wet and tight and irresistible.

She has one foot braced so she can rock and slide against him, swallowing the desperate little sounds he makes into her mouth. He can’t seem to pull her close enough against him, one hand tight around the leather belts at her waist, the other palming her ass. He reaches down a little further and he can actually touch where they’re joined together, brush the tips of his fingers over her lips where she’s spread around him. “Ohh—” she huffs out. “Keep doing that.”

Her flesh hand is clenched around the back of his neck, keeping them together, which means his other hand can drift down to her clit. She whines and shivers when he touches her there, pressing her face against his neck as the rhythm of her hips stutters. They’re both desperately close but he wants to feel her come before he does, let the hard clench of her muscles send him over the edge. It doesn't take much at all when she’s as eager and wet as this, just a steady rub in the right spot and she’s whimpering and shuddering apart, burying the sounds between sweaty skin and dusty leather. He’s right behind her, his hips twitching up against the slick mess in between them.

He can feel her chest heaving against his. They’re both dripping with sweat, and both his hands are covered in her juices. The sounds of the garage slowly filter back into his consciousness, the clang and grind of tools, the raucous chatter of voices, men and boys and these days more than a few women among them. He might as well have forgotten they existed for the past few minutes, forgotten anything existed but the lines of her body and the scent of her skin. If anyone happened upon them now, he can’t say he would even care.

Furiosa hums contentedly against him. “Bath?” he mutters against her shoulder. She makes an affirmative noise.

“Deserve it,” she says, her voice still vibrating somewhere around his jacket collar. “Hard day in the garage.”


End file.
